CHAPTER 3: The Investigator

ARIA'S POV

I found Flynn on the couch at six in the morning. Still in yesterday's suit, shoes on, one arm thrown over his face.

I'd heard him come downstairs around two. The creak of the stairs. The soft click of the guest bathroom door. Then nothing. I'd lain in bed staring at the ceiling, counting my breaths, waiting for him to come up and try again to explain.

He never did.

Now morning light came through the living room windows. His briefcase sat by the door where he'd dropped it. His tie was on the coffee table, coiled like a snake.

I went to the kitchen. Made coffee. The machine hissed and dripped. Normal sounds. Normal morning. Except nothing was normal.

He appeared in the doorway as I poured my second cup. His hair stuck up on one side. His collar was wrinkled.

"Aria."

I didn't look at him. Just added cream, watched it swirl brown to tan.

"Can we talk?"

"No."

"Please. I just need—"

"I said no."

I walked past him. Grabbed my purse and keys. My hand shook putting the keys in the ignition, but I got the car started and backed out without looking at the house.

The gallery opened at ten. I was there by seven-thirty. Torres Contemporary sat in a converted warehouse, all exposed brick and high ceilings. Normally I loved the quiet before we opened. The way morning light hit the art. The smell of coffee from the cafe next door.

Today it all felt hollow.

I had three emails from artists about the upcoming show. Installation started Friday. I'd been excited about this exhibit for months. Now I stared at my computer screen and couldn't remember why any of it mattered.

"You're here early."

I jumped. Jordan stood in the doorway holding two coffees and a bag that smelled like pastries.

"Couldn't sleep," I said.

She set the coffee on my desk. Studied my face. Jordan and I had been friends since college. She knew when I was lying.

"Babe, you look like death. What's going on?"

My throat closed up. I picked at the corner of my desk calendar.

"Aria."

"I think my husband is having an affair."

The words came out flat. Matter-of-fact. Like I was saying the copier was broken or we needed more frames.

Jordan pulled up a chair. "You think?"

"I found bank statements. He's been sending five thousand dollars a month to a woman named Sienna Thornfield. For eight months."

"Jesus."

"He won't tell me who she is. Just keeps saying it's complicated."

Jordan's jaw tightened. She'd never particularly liked Flynn. Too polished, she'd said once. Too perfect. I'd thought she was being paranoid.

"You think?" she said again. "Aria, you're the most observant person I know. If you think it, it's happening."

My eyes burned. I pressed my palms against them. "I need to know for sure."

"What are you going to do?"

I'd been thinking about it all night. Between counting ceiling tiles and listening to Flynn not come upstairs, I'd made a decision.

"Remember when sarah got divorced You got her a lawyer said she was incredible."

Jordan nodded slowly. "Sarah Mendoza. She's good."

"Does she know any private investigators?"

"Aria-"

"I have to know." My voice cracked. "I can't ask him again. He's just going to lie. I need the truth."

Jordan pulled out her phone. "I'll text Sarah right now."

By noon, I had a name. Rebecca Cole. Licensed investigator, fifteen years experience, specialization in infidelity cases. The words made my stomach turn.

I called from my car during lunch.

"Ms. Sinclair?" Her voice was professional. Kind. "Sarah mentioned you might reach out. How can I help?"

I told her about the statements. The name. Flynn's refusal to explain. My voice stayed steady until the end, then broke on the word "affair."

"I'm sorry you're going through this," Rebecca said. "I know how hard this is. What I can tell you is that if there's something to find, I'll find it. And if there's not, I'll tell you that too."

"How long does it take?"

"Depends. Sometimes I have answers in a day. Sometimes it takes longer. I'll start with basic background on Sienna Thornfield. See what's publicly available. Then we go from there."

"Okay."

"My retainer is two thousand. That covers the first twenty hours. I'll send you a contract."

I used my personal account. The one Flynn didn't touch. I'd been saving it for art supplies. For classes I kept meaning to take. For some day.

I signed the contract in my car and sent it back. Then I sat there with my hands on the steering wheel, feeling sick.

The next forty-eight hours crawled.

Flynn tried to talk. Sent texts that I deleted without reading. Had flowers delivered to the gallery. Two dozen white roses with a card that said *Please*. I gave them to the receptionist.

At home, we moved around each other like ghosts. He'd try to start conversations. I'd leave the room. Once, I came home and found him at the kitchen table with his head in his hands. He looked up when I walked in. His eyes were red.

I went upstairs without a word.

Wednesday evening, my phone rang. Unknown number.

"Ms. Sinclair? It's Rebecca Cole."

My hand tightened on the phone. "You found something."

"I did. Is now a good time to talk?"

I was in the gallery parking lot. The sun was setting, painting everything orange. "Yes."

"I found her. And Ms. Sinclair, you're going to want to sit down for this."

I was already sitting. My legs had gone numb anyway.

"Tell me."

"The woman's name is Sienna Thornfield." Rebecca paused. Gentle. Like she was bracing me. "And she's seven months pregnant.”